The Sketchbook
by MetalWolfMelody
Summary: Neal has always harbored dangerous secrets, and shadowed sides of himself from Peter's view. When Peter takes a stop at Neal's apartment on a rainy Saturday afternoon, what secrets could he possibly uncover? Most importantly, are all of Neal's secrets of the harmful variety? One-shot.


With a blue case file clutched tightly in his hand, Peter knocked gently on the door to Neal Caffrey's penthouse, an act that was nothing more than a common courtesy. This was the second time that he had struck his knuckles in succession upon the surface, so he took pause, and pressed his ear to the wood, hoping to gain some insight to Neal's absence. The data from his tracking anklet had him recorded as being within his home, and on a rainy Saturday afternoon, the CI had little cause to be elsewhere.

Hearing no footsteps, or other promise of Neal's immediate presence, Peter put his hand on the doorknob, testing it gently. To both his surprise and relief, it was unlocked, clicking open with one turn of his wrist. Cautiously, he opened the door completely, shifting the case file so it was held tightly beneath one arm as he let himself in.

The open room appeared as a more chaotic version of normalcy, canvases strewn across the room, propped up against the windows, scattered across the room. The stench of new paint filled the air, but from so many visits, the smell no longer stung Peter's nose as it once had. In fact, it was welcoming to know that Neal was exercising his weekend freedom responsibly, artistically within his own home. While he would have called out as a first reflex to his entrance, still not catching sight of his partner, Peter chose to bite his tongue. Though rain was pounding on the glass, it was easy to hear the hum of the shower from where he currently stood.

While it would have been easiest to make himself comfortable and wait, the chairs were all cleared away to be used as easels or showcases for display, and the table was covered in art supplies. The only space available was the open floor, which was still hard to navigate, mainly occupied by the small personal art gallery that Neal had created in his passion. In the end, Peter had to settle with placing the case file on a corner of the kitchen peninsula, carefully balanced between unwashed glasses.

With the shower still running in the background, Peter found himself on the verge of giving in to overwhelming temptation. There were so many works laid before him, so many books and corners of the penthouse, items that he had never been able to investigate due to Neal's constant presence. As a handler and agent, he could search the room at any time, but he had given Neal his privacy as a token of trust and respect. A home was a sacred place, and Peter would have felt guilt in trying to breach such sanctity.

What fueled him now was not a desire to uncover some well-hidden truth; the roots of this need were fueled more by childlike motives. It was merely the opportunity laid out in front of him. He hungered to take a few quick peeks at what would have been more desirable as a secret. Making sure his ears were tuned closely to the shower running in the background, Peter stepped forward into the fluid display of art, eyes flickering over the many masterpieces.

Initially, the display was easy to gauge; many styles, many famous works, replications or imitations of well-known artists, obvious even to a less cultured eye, such as Peter's own. It always stunned him to see Neal's handiwork, the pure artistic value that the man held within his hands, displayed on canvas for all to see. It was easy to forget in those moments of purity that Neal was in fact a criminal, a man who forged art, nonetheless. The artistic skill obviously made him a natural, and in the moment that Peter looked at a lovely realistic portrait, the FBI agent felt a bit of jealousy. Each work seemed to sing with intrigue and truth, one that he knew that he could never replicate out of his own imagination.

It was with this thought, slightly bitter, that Peter decided to delve a bit deeper, carefully sidestepping the canvases. He turned his attention to a pile of sketchbooks and notebooks that appeared nearly discarded at the foot of an occupied easel. Looking around, as though he were a child with a hand in the cookie jar, Peter picked the first one up off the top and thumbed through it, pushing the pages gently as he turned them.

This first booklet held no true secrets, just lazy sketches, however talented, of female anatomy. It seemed that the female body was not a subject lost to Neal's interests, for they were also the subject of multiple paintings that were propped up around the room, some incomplete, some singing with color and clarity. Finding nothing of true interest, Peter picked up the next sketchbook, something that appeared to be the opposite of the luxury art supplies that Neal usually coveted.

Running his fingers over the cover, Peter could nearly feel the quality of a typical sketchbook that anyone could grab from the local bookstore. The pages were of a heavy weight, and it was well bound, but it was far from the Mercedes of art material. Perhaps this was what sparked Peter's intrigue most of all, for he soon found himself hungering to open the book, unable to suppress his better intuition.

The drawing on the first page was enough to make the agent's jaw drop in a display of genuine shock, an expression that he thought Neal could no longer elicit from him. Though the charcoal appeared slightly smudged, it was a drawing that may as well have been a reflection. The sight that met Peter's eyes was a rich sketch done of his very own face, eyebrows furrowed, lips downturned in the characteristic frown that he sported so often around the office. Even as he looked at it, Peter could feel his forehead pinching as he brought them close to one another in his confusion and awe. Although the sight was both strange and intriguing, his curiosity was significantly piqued.

Flipping the page, he was met with a display of quick pen strokes, mimicking a small sketch in a local newspaper. This was easily interpreted as a view of the office, particularly Diana and Jones standing at the coffee machine, fussing over it being broken once again. Even though the features were slightly blurred by the style, there was no mistaking the familiar scene, one that Neal had captured so elegantly with nothing more than ink. Swallowing at such a display of this day-to-day life, Peter flipped the page again, trying to absorb as much as he could before his time of solitude ran out.

He could have easily spent the whole day looking through the book, admiring each individual piece of art that filled the pages. The subject of every single page was something mundane that Neal was forced to see every day; criminals, coffee mugs, desks at the office, coworkers. The most common occurrence was Peter himself, along with some beautiful portraits of Elizabeth, so realistic that Peter swore he could have touched her curls through the paper. Yet Neal had somehow managed to capture this mundane normalcy and transform it into something beautiful.

The artwork was done in drastically different styles, differing from page to page. There were pencil and graphite sketches, caricatures, even some experimental watercolor pieces. Eras of art, different masterminds of the craft, their influences were apparent in each of the pages of the precious, small sketchbook. Peter was entranced, captivated as he stared at a cubist representation of the interior of the FBI surveillance van, Diana's hunched form included in the blue and green streaking the page. Flipping the paper, Peter heard the water to the shower shut off, and gave himself the hurried opportunity to look down at one last page.

That last glance truly stole his breath away. The piece took up the entire page, full color with thick lines defining sharp edges, charcoal smeared to soften folds and shadows, the quality of a photograph, with even more natural beauty. It was of the whole team standing together, laughing, a moment frozen in time, so much joy that the paper was nearly glowing. Only then did Peter know that the sketchbook was more than a diary; it was how life looked through Neal's eyes. These sketches were more than practice for another work of art; they were snapshots of self-expression that Neal had often claimed he lacked entirely.

His own eyes burning at the realization, and the awe of the beauty, Peter snapped the book carefully shut and returned it to its respective place in the pile, placing the other book atop it, as he had first discovered it. Stealthily he made his way across the room, back towards the kitchen, snatching the case file from where he had placed it. Neal's footsteps came from the next room over, and Peter opened the file, staring down at it curiously.

A nearby door was thrown open, and Neal strode in, a white towel wrapped around his waist. He jumped back when he saw Peter, who only looked up expectantly, smirking at how the CI startled in his presence. It took Neal a moment to grab at his waist, checking that the towel was indeed secure, before he spoke out against the sudden intrusion.

"What the hell are you doing here, Peter?" The voice that asked was indignant, but Peter wasn't fazed in the slightest. Shutting the file, the agent stood up straight, rolling his shoulders back as he went. When he spoke, he made sure that his voice was controlled, giving no indication of the secrets that he had just uncovered.

"I just came to discuss the case with you, check if you had any more leads, I just happened to be in the neighborhood. I know it's your day off, but I thought you might have had a breakthrough. It looks like you're busy, so I guess I'll leave you alone. That is, if you don't have any more information." Though Peter knew his words were gentle, it seemed as though Neal were still trying to recover from the slight start.

"God, I could have walked out here naked. I know the law, you're allowed to come in whenever you need, all that, but seriously? Try knocking next time" Neal muttered, retreating towards his large closet, seemingly grateful to be away from Peter's eyes. Peter only smiled slightly, knowing that there was much more to the man than met the eye, as evidenced by his work.

"I was just admiring the art" Peter called out, waiting for Neal to reemerge. "But it doesn't look like any of these are an original Caffrey. When will you have your truly private gallery up for display?" He baited this gently, but Neal didn't fall for it, even as he walked out of the closet a minute later. The CI was roughly towel drying his hair, his blue eyes turning to steel as he gazed at the art displayed across the room.

"Aside from some sketches, there are no 'Caffrey originals,' and there never will be. I'm not an artist; I'm a forger, a counterfeiter, and nothing more than that. Of course, these aren't anything more than style practice; I would never think of selling one" the informant quickly corrected, draping the towel over the arm of the couch. Peter couldn't help but smile at the suggestion, and gave a small nod.

"Well, look into that. You obviously have what it takes. I know you have something good in there, kid. Just work on letting it out. Maybe you'll have your work in a museum one day; and this time, it would actually have your name on it" he joked, but hoped that his eyes flickered seriously towards his consultant. To this, Neal's taught smile dropped ever so slightly, but he pulled it back onto his lips within the second.

"We'll see about that. I don't have any leads on that case, so you might as well get going. Take care, Peter. I'll see you on Monday" Neal stated simply, voice devoid of any true feeling. Peter realized that he had to settle for this; having a look in the sketchbook would have to be enough to sate his curiosity for the time being.

"You too, Neal. See you Monday." Without another word, Peter walked out of the penthouse, tucking the file inside of his jacket as he prepared to dart out into the soggy drizzle. But more importantly than the file was the insight he had gained in the brief visit, a wonderful vantage point into the life of a man he knew so much, yet so little, about.

 **A huge thanks to everyone who took the time to read this little snapshot! I hope that you enjoyed.**


End file.
